


Ex Nihilo

by Destina



Category: Gladiator (2000), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Crossover, Early Work, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-06-01
Updated: 2000-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4160670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stranger comes to give Maximus some cryptic advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ex Nihilo

**Author's Note:**

> written 2000ish. Posted to AO3 in June 2015.

Thick, oily smoke rose from the myriad lamps placed around the room, wafting across the rough-carved stone doorway. The traveler frowned slightly in distaste; he'd smelled worse, lived in worse, but had acquired a taste for clean, bright surroundings. Simply stepping into the slave quarters was like stepping back in time. His memory recoiled, retreating back into the present, into the dank, dim cell.

He pulled his cloak closer about him and perched on the edge of the ornate couch meant for patrons, irritably pushing aside plump cushions covered in bright fabric. Half of the room was garishly appointed, and half was straw and stone. Such an odd combination, designed to cater to the tastes of those it was meant to entertain. Well-born ladies of distinction could garner a costly thrill from seeing this sanitized version of the raw reality, and from using what little power they possessed over men. Especially these brave, strong men who could not refuse, or order them about, or make them property. It was no different in any Roman province. Near or far, the exercise of power was irresistible to those who were, or had been, without it.

It excited the traveler also, but for different reasons. It was, after all, why he had come.

He heard the approach of the guards as they neared the tiny room; sounds of a scuffle and harsh grunting filled the air as they forcibly propelled the slave down the hall. Such a tremendous waste of energy on the part of the captive, who could have no hope of changing his circumstances. The traveler had been watching every match for the past ten days -- the slave fought brilliantly. His eventual death in the arena would be a tragic waste of his innate strategic intelligence. But no matter. There were things beyond his ability to influence, and the traveler had accepted his own limitations in the realm of the Romans long before.

More noises drifted in, closer this time: a shout of pain, a few muffled curses, audible blows. A group of sweating, angry men burst into the room, tangled together in combat. The cloaked man moved smoothly aside, eyes narrowing, hand moving instinctively to the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side. It was over in moments. The slave was subdued, held still as his wrists were chained to the wall, and then released. Slowly, the traveler's hand relaxed, slipping away from his weapon and back to his side.

"Very sorry for the disturbance," one of the guards said brusquely, throwing a dark look in the direction of the gladiator. "He shouldn't pose much of a threat this way."

"He's no threat to me." In smooth, cultured tones, the traveler dismissed the notion of such a thing out of hand, earning him a scowl from the prisoner and a bark of laughter from the guard.

"No one's been able to use him yet. He's a rough one." The guard's eyes flickered across his slender form, appraising him. "Maybe more than you can handle."

"We'll see." He tossed a few extra coins at the man. "Give me the keys. And stay out of here. I don't need your help."

"Your funeral." The guard shrugged and pitched a wide loop of metal to him.

Keys jangled brightly together as the traveler plucked the ring from the air; he noted the sharp, observant gaze of the slave, who moved closer, hungry for his freedom.

He tucked the key ring into a broad pocket inside his cloak and waved a hand at the guard, dismissing him. Once the man had gone, he casually opened the clasp of his long cloak, drawing it off with long, graceful fingers.

" _Noli me tangere_ ," the slave snarled softly, eyes glittering in the half-light.

"They call you the Spaniard," said the traveler thoughtfully. "I expected to hear you speak in that language, not in the mother tongue of Rome. You are not what you appear to be, gladiator."

"Few men are," the slave replied, giving the chains an experimental jerk, hard enough to rattle bone and cut the bruised flesh at his wrists.

The traveler studied him. "In answer to your demand -- I will not touch you. Yet." Intelligence burned in the eyes tracking him. "Are you educated, or are these phrases you have heard in your time of confinement among Romans?"

"Did you pay to fuck me, or to discuss philosophy?" the gladiator asked coldly.

"It depends," the traveler answered simply. "I paid for many things this evening; I wish to satisfy my curiosity. I wonder what you were before you came here..." He ran his gaze down the lean, hard body, assessing. "You weren't born a slave, or you'd be dead already. Your physical condition is remarkable - too good for someone who's spent a lifetime serving others. So you were captured, and quite recently." He paused. "Perhaps you are a criminal, hiding from your crucifixion by teasing death here. Or perhaps...you have lost the will to live at all, and you merely exist now, waiting..."

The slave's body tensed perceptibly. After a moment, he spoke, just a few words. " _Vivere militare est_."

To live is to fight, the traveler translated automatically, cycling through a dozen languages, some dead, some new. "So very true," he agreed quietly. " _At vindicta bonum vita iucundius ipsa._ " It was a challenge; he would know soon enough if the man was capable of understanding, or if his command of Latin was rote.

"But revenge takes time," the slave answered. "A man must wait, and opportunity comes."

The traveler nodded, satisfied. "Perhaps it has come tonight, gladiator." He grew amused as a scornful look passed across the other man's face.

"You paid for my...services...and I'm to believe it's for my benefit?" the slave asked, skepticism oozing from every word. "And it isn't enough that you want this; now I must amuse you with dainty Latin as well."

"You needn't speak," the traveler said mildly. "I'll take that as a sign you'd prefer to be bent over and taken like a dog, rather than treated like a man."

"I am not treated like a man. I am only a dog who fights and dies at the whim of his owner."

Silence fell between them; noises permeated the heavy night air, drifting in from the quarters of nearby slaves. Laughter; grunts of pleasure, punctuated with moans of pain.

"Tell me your name," said the traveler, walking a slow half-circle around his temporary prize. "Your real name, not this name you have adopted from the crowds."

The man in chains reacted to his predatory movements with subtle adjustments of his body, turning to face him at every angle, and always those eyes on him, those glowing, measuring eyes. "What purpose will that serve?" he asked, clenching his hands into fists.

"I wish to hear you say it," the traveler answered, smiling slightly.

The reaction was swift; a lifted chin, jaw set with determination. And stony silence.

"So stubborn." The traveler chuckled, stepping closer. He could sense no fear from the man - unbidden, his mind called forth the word opponent -- just an incredible will, and fierce anger, so hot that it seemed to sear his skin beneath the linen tunic. "I've learned to be stubborn, gladiator. I've conquered more than you can imagine. So your silence is meaningless to me; it's merely an obstacle, and I always find a way around an obstacle."

Still nothing, aside from a baleful glare. The Spaniard had switched into an economy of movement; his shoulders were still, no longer straining against the metal that bound him. Feet apart, knees bent slightly, he waited, like a cat about to pounce.

The traveler moved into the slave's space swiftly, so much so that there was no time for anything but instinct. Pure reaction should have demanded a small retreat, just a single step, but the gladiator held steadfast, unwilling to withdraw.

"You won't have any choice, you know. I'm not the worst of what will happen to you here. There are things far more hideous than this." As the traveler spoke, he raised his hand, rubbing a thumb lightly across the slave's jaw.

A small flare of a nostril reminded him that the gladiator was only biding his time until an opportunity arose. But something in the traveler responded to a spark in those eyes, to the barely contained ferocity he could sense waiting in the coiled muscles. He remained a moment longer than was necessary to make his point, touching the surprisingly soft skin, absorbing the slow, even breaths, smelling the scent of sweat and skin. It aroused him.

That wasn't part of the plan. But plans change, and he acknowledged it to himself. This man was what he'd believed him to be and much more.

"I know what you are," the traveler continued, his voice low and seductive, pitched only to be heard by the man whose eyes shifted up to meet his knowing gaze. "I have been what you are, seen the world from your perspective a hundred times."

The gladiator tilted his head slightly, bringing his lips into contact with the traveler's thumb, which swept carelessly across his mouth. "I need nothing from you," he said flatly, and drew the thumb between his teeth, biting hard.

The pain drove itself into the traveler's brain with thought-killing efficiency, but he battered it down, willing it back into the farthest corner of his consciousness. He planted one hand on the chest in front of him, shoving, reclaiming his fingers, watching with a sort of detached fascination as blood dripped down over his wrist.

"You're not one to waste an advantage," the traveler observed, dropping his hand to his side, ignoring it "Such a practical trait is rare in a conquered people." Admiration welled cautiously within him.

The gladiator spat to the side, ridding himself of traces of flesh and bloody tissue. "Your talking makes me tired," he said.

"Fortunately for you, then, I haven't much more to say." The traveler glanced at the door, to the impatient guards beyond. "Proximo keeps tighter hold of his stable than any slavemaster I've known. I offered a considerable sum, but he seems enamored of you."

"Why would you want to buy me?" Suspicion permeated the words.

"Because you intrigue me. I cannot count the number of years that have passed since I was interested in the fate of another man. But you - you're much more than a simple killer. You are too efficient. And there is too much in your eyes when you strike."

"You have a vivid imagination." The gladiator sank back against the wall and closed his eyes briefly.

"I am an apt judge of men." The traveler paused for a moment, considering his next action. "You will not give your trust; I would not expect it. Nor will I take from you what you are not willing to share."

"Share?" The weary head rose, lifted by a snort of laughter. "Why not just take what you want? In the end, that's the way it will be."

"Don't tempt me." Without warning, the traveler reached out, taking hold of the gladiator's torn tunic, yanking him forward. His mouth descended, claiming a brutal kiss, forcing the lips beneath his own to part, claiming his property with bruising strength. A growl sounded from somewhere deep in the slave's throat, resonating in their joined bodies. The traveler pulled back slightly, shoving the slave back against the wall, nimbly avoiding the hands grappling toward him. "Tell me your name, or I will make it my business to learn who you are, and I will share that information with all who can benefit by it."

Breathing heavily, the slave stared at him, apparently wrestling with his limited options. Almost as though the truth was torn from him, he gritted his teeth and ground out a single word. "Maximus." The sound of the name dropped into the air, carrying with it the hushed atmosphere of doom.

"Maximus." Satisfied, the traveler released his prey. "Well, Maximus. There is a greater game at work here. A man like you cannot be kept enslaved to the whims of others." He felt his expression harden, but was unable to control it. "It is possible to salvage something from the time you have spent in bondage."

"You sound as if you know." Dubious words.

"Oh, I do," the traveler answered wryly. Maximus was watching him intently, no doubt looking for weaknesses, but there would be none visible. He sighed. "There is little I can do to change your situation at present. But as with all things, you will not be here forever." The traveler lifted his cloak and procured the key ring, dangling it at the ends of his fingertips. "These keys are not yours to take, but there are other kinds of keys. If you are truly intelligent, you will realize this, and you will listen closely to my words."

"I'm listening," Maximus said, watching the motion of the keys as they swung to and fro.

"We will see one another again, gladiator. When the time comes, you will know. My villa stands in the province of Gaia, at the apex of a hill overlooking the road to the north of Minoria. Make your way there, and I will help you."

"I won't live that long." A bleak chuckle, and the eyes hardened again, became lost and shadowed with rage.

"You will live that long, and longer." The traveler shouldered on his cloak, hesitating as he drew the hood over his face. "Grow strong, Maximus. When next I see you, all will be clear."

"The road away from Minoria is long," Maximus observed. "Even if I should find my way there, how will I know you?"

"I am known, and not known. A man comes from nothing, and out of nothing, anything is possible." He banged the key ring against the bars, summoning the guard.

"Your name," said Maximus, exasperated. "Tell me your name."

The traveler smiled at Maximus, who surged forward against the chains, looking much like a wild animal leashed and caged. As the door was unbarred and opened, he stepped through into the night, handing the keys to the nearest man. "I am Methos," he said softly, before turning away into the darkness.

He rubbed his injured finger absently, easing the nearly-faded ache of completely healed skin. Out of nothing, and back into its sheltering oblivion; he had made that journey. It was a lesson he would teach Maximus someday.


End file.
